


The Stork Club

by AJ_Lenoire



Series: Avengers Fan Fiction Collection [18]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Peggy, Awesome Peggy Carter, F/M, Kid Natasha Romanov, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Sad, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 06:33:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7256314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJ_Lenoire/pseuds/AJ_Lenoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"Peggy?"</em><br/><em>"I'm here."</em><br/><em>"I'm gonna need a raincheck on that dance."</em><br/><em>"All right. A week next Saturday at The Stork Club."</em><br/><em>"You've got it."</em><br/><em>"Eight o'clock on the dot. Don't you dare be late. Understood?"</em><br/><em>"You know, I still don't know how to dance."</em><br/><em>"I'll show you how. Just be there."</em><br/><em>"We'll have the band play something slow. I'd hate to step on your—"</em><br/> </p><p>She was here, just as they'd planned. But he wasn't. Two weeks after the tragic events that tore the love of her life away from her, Peggy Carter walks into the Stork Club, sits down, and orders a drink, waiting for her date whom she knows will never arrive. As she proceeds to spend the night reflecting, beginning the long and arduous task of healing heartbreak, she expects to spend the evening alone. And she does.</p><p>Until someone else walks in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stork Club

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I was rewatching the _Captain America_ films as prep for _Civil War_. Off topic, the first time I saw it, it left me feeling underwhelmed, though I liked it a lot. After watching it the second time around, I adored it wholeheartedly. There's so much in it that you need to watch it twice to really absorb all the information.
> 
> ANYWAY, after watching _The First Avenger_ I couldn't help but think about Peggy and Steve's Stork Club date - after all, the last line of the film references it, it meant a lot to both of them. Part-way through watching _The Winter Soldier_ I was, as I always have been, a little confused and ticked off about the fact that Natasha was apparently born in 1984, not around 1928 like her comic counterpart. I maintain that in terms of MCU, she lied to Clint and Fury and everyone because she was already a big enough target without broadcasting the fact that she's got a semi-functional version of Steve's serum in her body, hence the super-slow ageing. If you have time, check out her biography on the Marvel (not MCU) wiki, it's really cool and worth a read.
> 
> Anyway, I digress again, this is what my brain spat out, enjoy!

It was just as they’d planned, the two of them. Just as they’d suggested. Saturday, eight ‘o’clock on the _dot_ , the Stork Club.

It was gorgeous, it really was. Elegant, with dark gleaming walls lacquered like mahogany mirrors, a heady smell of expensive perfume mingling with the alcohol from the bar, something gentle and slow playing at the front, courtesy of the band, a buxom brunette singing throatily into the microphone. She was on her own, Howard doing what he did best; tinkering in his labs and pushing all emotion aside. The Commandos were still battling onwards, continuing to ‘fight the good fight’, even in the absence of their Captain and sniper. The war was still raging, though for her it felt as though everything had been muted. Background chatter, ambient noise. All a whirlwind of barely-noticed information that she processed and responded to and dealt with on autopilot. But it was almost over, apparently. And it showed, because there were men in military uniform in the club, and lots of them, all laughing and drinking with friends and ladies on their arms. Many showed wedding bands, and all of them had eyes only for these women. A bitter taste rose in her mouth, something ugly and jealous. She took a terse sip of her drink to choke it back.

 _My darling_ , she thought, _if only you could see what you did for us_ … Not for the first time, tears stung at her eyes. She’d forced them all back since that first time, when the radio had cut off so… _abruptly_. She wondered if he had gone that quickly, too. If the whole plane and everything in it had just, _snap_ , gone. She hoped it had.

 _No_ , she then chided herself, _don’t be so morbid_. A small part of her couldn’t help but think he’d actually _be_ here tonight; bright eyed and hopeful, so simply _good_. A very unladylike part of her had thought him completely _delicious_ from first sight. How he’d looked at her differently to all the goons he’d been grouped with. With respect, despite her gender, with approval and equality. He’d been funny and incredibly cute in his fluster, wonderful in his humility, and she hadn’t cared in the slightest that he’d been small. Then, _well_. There’d just been more of him for her to admire. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a man check his pocket watch for the time, and she wondered if he had his with him. In his hand, wherever he lay. Not that they’d ever find him. Howard had said as much; the tundra shifted too quickly, too completely. They had his last coordinates, but that was little help, now. She hoped he had at least had his watch in hand, and that he was happy. Happy, wherever he was, and with his Bucky. She’d only met the man a handful of times, and in brief passing. She’d barely talked to him, too, simply because, well, _he_ had been there. She’d only had eyes for him.

And every time she thought of that film clip; the camera focusing on the picture of her in the watch, and his tucking it away with a blush and the irritation of invaded privacy, she felt flattered and so _broken_. But she was strong. She was British. She was a woman. She would endure and become stronger for her pain, she would _not_ let it consume or crush her. For his sake if not her own, or anyone else’s, she would _remain standing strong_.

Nonetheless, tears rolled down her cheeks. He wasn’t coming, now it was irrefutable, and she finally let the tears drop. It was so _aching_ inside of her; so raw and painful, like a knife to her heart that just wouldn’t _go_. Not ever. Only for those brief moments of relief in her awakening, but then she would remember everything as sleep was chased away, and it would descend upon her like so much weight. She had no idea how long she cried for, no idea and she didn’t care. She just needed… she needed to _grieve_. She’d been putting it off this past fortnight because the war was still going on – though there was talk of a German surrender, and there was hope, and a light at the end of the tunnel, but that light had lost something to her since Steve had gone. She’d been putting it off this past fortnight because she’d had a job to do, and she’d been hopeful that, by some miracle not unlike the one that created him; the ninety-eight-pound asthmatic into a two-hundred-pound Adonis of a soldier; that he would walk in, wearing the same off-green as the men around her, heavily decorated, smiling. He would walk over to her and say, _may I have this dance?_ But no. He wasn’t coming. He wasn’t ever coming.

“Madam?”

A voice cut through her thoughts, and for a moment she was ripped entirely from them; like elastic not immediately following the pulling force. Then they snapped back to rest alongside her, and the relief was over. But for that brief peace she was thankful, if confused. She looked up to see a man, hugely tall and broad, more of a giant really, and certainly more than six feet, standing taller than even Steve had. But, despite this, he was kind-faced and, likely because he was in his late forties, had smile creases around his eyes. He was wearing a thick fur-like jacket that would look more at home on the back of a Hollywood star, or in Moscow, and a hat of similar styling. Beside him was a young girl, sixteen, maybe seventeen at the most, who was pale, quite small, and had something about her that put Peggy off slightly. Something not quite right, and a little chilling.

With that in mind, she turned her gaze back to the man – given by the tenor of the voice, it was clearly he who had spoken – with some relief. “Yes?” She asked, in a remarkably steady voice. Her tears were gone, now, had been for some time. She wasn’t sure how long it had been, but it had been more than the few minutes she’d first thought, it seemed. The club, now that evening was turning into night, was starting to get very full, particularly the dancefloor and the tables. She was the only one sat alone.

“I am begging your pardon,” The kind-faced man said, and he had a thick Russian accent, “But there are few seats, and we are very tired. Might I partake in your company a few minutes?”

She was initially hesitant, but the odd-looking girl, though unnerving, was still a girl. Even under the heavy furs, it was clear to see she was thin and slight and had been on her feet for quite some time. And, the man was polite, and perhaps she was eager for some company; some short-lived relief from her melancholy. So, she nodded with a bright red smile, and gestured to the seats around her table – there were three. “Of course,” She obliged, “Please, sit down.”

The man gave her an appreciative smile and sat down heavily, taking off his hat and revealing dark brown hair streaked with grey. Despite his massive and imposing size, his eyes were a kind and soft brown, something of a deer, and none of the coldness in the girl’s icy-green eyes. That, Peggy noted absently, was odd. She would have expected it to be the other way around.

“May I buy you a drink?” The man asked her, seeing that Peggy’s was almost done. For the sake of politeness, Peggy nodded.

“Same again, thank you.” She said in a soft voice. The man nodded and went over to the bar, cutting a wide berth with his impressive stature. The girl remained silent and stiff in her seat, sitting so straight she didn’t even touch the chair’s back, and she had not removed her hat. They sat in a somewhat awkward silence for a moment until the man came back, with a glass of something strong – likely vodka, Peggy suspected, and another glass of Peggy’s beer.

“A nice lady like yourself should not be drinking alone.” The man noted as he sat down, “Are you awaiting a friend?”

“Something like that.” Peggy replied ambiguously, and, not wanting to go into details with this stranger, changed topic, “I’m Peggy, by the way. Peggy Carter.” She held out her hand, and the man shook it. He had a strong grip, but she’d expected nothing less.

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Carter.” The man replied, “My name is Ivan Petrovich, and this is my daughter.” He gestured to the girl sat beside him. Peggy looked at the girl, who was still sitting stiffly in her chair, like she was awaiting orders. Ivan nudged her lightly,

“Say hello, _Myshka_.” He implored, the word sounding like an endearment, Peggy supposed, but she didn’t speak Russian. The war had offered many things, but not the chance to learn _that_ particular dialect, though she had picked up ample amounts of French and German. At the encouragement of her father, the girl turned to Peggy and regarded her impassively.

“Hello.” She said in a blank voice, then turned back to face straight forwards – which happened to be the door. Ivan frowned,

“ _Myshka_ ,” He said in a vaguely reproachful voice, “ _Ne byt grubym_. Apologise.” The girl looked to him, and Peggy saw a flash of something besides cold apathy; the sort of guilt a child might give their parent. As such, she looked at Peggy again,

“I apologise for my rudeness.” She said, in a surprisingly unaccented voice, Peggy almost thought she was an American herself. The girl then promptly resumed her staring at the club’s door. Ivan raised an eyebrow, but, seeming satisfied, looked to Peggy with a smile.

“Ah, she is good with the languages, but not with the people.” He said ruefully, “You must excuse her manners, Miss Carter, she does not often come to such places.”

“Don’t worry, Mr Petrovich, I wasn’t offended.” Peggy smiled. His name sounded rather odd with her own crisp British accent. Ivan smiled back, and when he raised his glass at an angle, she obliged to tap her own against it in toast. She, however, only took a small sip, whereas Ivan downed his own drink in one. He had something of that stereotypical heartiness she’d expect of a Russian man, and his cheer was somewhat infectious. She found his large smile was, in turn, making her own a little bigger.

“Tell me, Miss Carter,” He said after swallowing his drink hard, “You are not American, you don’t have the accent. You come from Britain?”

“England,” She supplied, “Born and raised. I moved here for, ah, refuge.” That was a bald-faced lie, but a harmless one. It was untoward of a woman to say she had moved continents for her job, much less that said job involved government secrets and Allied war efforts. Still, Ivan nodded, “And you?” She then asked, “You’re obviously from Russia, what brings you to the States?”

“The war.” Ivan replied, “I know we are not popular here, but for that I think we will be safe.” He put his arm around the girl and kissed the top of her head. For the first time since Peggy had seen her, she smiled. “Times are turbulent in Mother Russia, but here is safe.” He paused, and looked around almost furtively, as though he expected someone to be listening. Peggy suddenly realised that he seemed rather on edge. Then she realised; he was running. From HYDRA or the Nazis or Stalin, he was running and he was trying to protect his daughter. But she decided not to press the matter. Instead, she learned a few things of his life, and she, in turn, told him a few of hers. He had been born and raised in St Petersburg. He had had a wife, Tatiana who had, sadly, died in childbirth. He had worked as a bodyguard and a chauffeur for many years, given his natural frame and his hobby of weight-lifting. Peggy, in reply, told him of her brother, Michael, and how she’d made her own path despite her gender. She told him about Steve – only what the tabloids knew; nothing personal, not to a stranger and let alone when the wound was so fresh.

“And your daughter?” Peggy then asked, looking to the girl. She didn’t really look like Ivan, with a delicate face, hard and cutting underneath; porcelain obscuring steel. Ivan’s face was somewhat the opposite, hard lines, but underneath there was softness and gentility. His eyes were a kind and gentle brown, hers were a cutting and unforgiving green. Peggy didn’t want to cross any boundaries, didn’t want to intrude, but something about the girl suggested something terrible had happened to her.

Ivan looked at his daughter, still staring straight ahead as though he and Peggy were not even on her radar, and he smiled. It was a sad smile.

“Seventeen years ago,” He said, “My son, Yuri, was in hospital, and I was on my way to visit him. When I arrived outside the hospital, I saw that it was on fire. I ran in to try and save him. I was too late, the children’s ward had already succumbed.” He spoke solemnly, but honestly; as if it didn’t matter that she was a stranger to him. “I was trying to get through when I heard screams from another ward, and I found a young woman with a baby in her arms. The woman was unable to walk, so I carried her and her child out of the burning building. She died shortly after. Smoke, I think. But, just before she did, she gave her child. She told me her name was Natalia Romanova, and asked that I take care of her.” He looked to his daughter again, with another sad smile. “That fire killed her parents, and my boy. We both would have been lost. We saved each other, I think.”

Peggy ducked her head and took another sip of her drink. The atmosphere in the club was no longer so merry, and the relief she’d found in this stranger’s conversation was gone and over. She was lost, too. But she had yet to find someone to save her. It seemed she would have to save herself. The smallest of smiles tugged at her lips then. Something Steve had said, in passing, after she had beaten the Howling Commandos at one-armed push-ups – all except Steve, but he’d let her win, and for that she'd punched him. Afterwards, he’d grinned, not even bleeding, and Dum Dum had said _you’re not much of a damsel in distress, Peggy_. To which, Steve had replied, _she’s not a damsel in distress at **all**. If she got captured, she’d save herself and kick those guys sorry asses all on her own_. She’d given them all a bright red smirk then, and sat down on a log next to Jacques, attempting to practice her French (multilingualism was not only an impressive skill, but quickly becoming a sign of sophistication and class). Steve had kept glancing at her sideways all night, but she’d pretended not to notice, just like Bucky – to whom he’d usually been talking – pretended not to notice, either.

 _She’d save herself_. Steve had known she would do that. Not thought, _known_. He’d said it as surely as the sky was blue. He’d never doubted that she would. If nothing else, she wanted to prove him right. A last testament to his memory. She’d save herself.

And when she spotted the men in the club, she was soon vowing to save another.

Suited in black, standing out like sore thumbs once you noticed them, and she could tell from the hang of their uniforms’ fabric that they were both carrying weapons. They were turning their heads with their noses raised, like everyone was beneath them, but their eyes were ever moving and scrutinising. They were looking for someone. She had a feeling she knew who.

“Mr Petrovich,” Peggy then said in a calm voice, her expression impassive and her eyes straight forwards, not unlike Natalia Romanova. “I believe those two men in the back are looking for you.” He visibly tensed and glanced around for a moment under the pretence of adjusting how he was sat. His kind face turned hard with annoyance and the resilience of a fight. It had something of Steve in it; the preparation to deal damage, to be ruthless. She’d only seen it with such ferocity as this (such ferocity that seemed natural to Ivan – marking either a testament to how much he’d suffered, or Steve’s simple goodness and reluctance to simply charge in without attempting negotiations first) once, after Bucky had fallen from the train. Equally, that was the only time she’d seen him cry. She shook herself before her memories pulled her too deep again, and focused on her present situation. Ivan let out a deep, heavy sigh, and turned back to her.

“Miss Carter,” He said, “I am deeply sorry for this, I hope you can forgive me.”

She frowned, “For what?” She asked, and he gave another grim sigh. He leant in close and began to talk very quietly, very fast, brown eyes alight and serious.

“Those men are operatives from the Red Room,” He told her “A faction of the KGB with alliances to HYDRA and the Nazis. When Natalia was seven, the Red Room tricked me into giving her to them by pretending to be a school. In that respect, they are not lying, but it is a school for murder and espionage. They take orphan girls, train them to become spies and killers, unsuspecting and unparalleled. They compete for the title of Black Widow, and the ones that fail, die. They die, Miss Carter. Little girls killed by little girls. It is a place of nightmares. I managed to get her out whilst they were distracted by recent events – for that, I have your Captain America to thank.” He glanced at the men worriedly and turned back to her, resuming his explanation, “If they get Natalia, I fear for her, Miss Carter. I fear for her; body, mind and soul. She is not my blood, but is my daughter, and I will not let her be captured by those men, not again. But I will not put you in harm’s way to do it. You must forget you ever saw us. Forget our names, forget our faces. You never saw Ivan Petrovich and Natalia Romanova. You don’t know who they are, you have never met them. You spent this evening alone and you did not talk to anyone.” He stood up abruptly and turned to Natalia.

“ _Myshka_ ,” Ivan said, in a commanding voice, different to his earlier, amiable tone, “You stay here with Miss Carter. You leave only when they are gone, understand?”

“ _Da, Papa_.” Natalia replied in a similar, apathetic tone. She looked at Peggy, “May I borrow your coat?” She asked, and Peggy, somewhat dumbfounded by the question, just nodded and handed it over. Natalia removed her own coat and her hat, donning Peggy’s jacket. Her hair, now free of the heavy fur hat, fell free about her face. It was long and very curly, as well as a highly conspicuous shade of deep red. Yet, it did something to soften her hard features, and made her look younger and more girlish. Ivan then snuck – with surprising grace and secrecy for a man of his size – to the other end of the club’s main room, and then proceeded to make a big show of walking out of the club very noticeably, and catching the attention of the two men, who nodded to one another and followed him. As soon as they were out of the club, Natalia took off Peggy’s coat and handed it back to her, donning her own ensemble once more. She made to stand up, but Peggy caught her arm. Natalia looked at her as though affronted, but underneath that, Peggy could see a more learned reflex; fear. No doubt her _teachers_ in this _Red Room_ had instilled that particular reaction. She offered a kind but tight smile, and kept her grip firm, but not cruel.

“Wait,” She said to the girl, and despite what she had been taught, Natalia waited, and listened to what this woman had to say. Ivan seemed to trust her, so _she_ could trust her, too. “Over there.” Peggy gave the tiniest of pointed glances over to the other end of the club, and three more men, dressed identically to the first two, were not inside the club; likely looking for their missing student upon realising her father was alone. “You wait here,” Peggy told the girl, “I’ll distract them.”

“I am capable of defending myself, Miss Carter.” Natalia said. Her longest sentence so far, and peculiar in its inflection. Not quite American, not quite Russian - maybe she was nervous, maybe nervousness caused her to lose her near-flawless accent. But either way, there was conviction that meant she clearly _did_ consider herself able to handle those men. Peggy didn’t doubt it, frankly, if the hushed and few words Ivan had given were to be trusted. “Papa does not wish to put you in harm’s way. You never saw us. You don’t know who I am.”

“I bloody do.” Peggy said hotly, tightening her grip on the girl’s arm. It was as though Steve was standing beside her just now. _Don’t just let them go, Peg_. He said – or was it her? In such matters, they seemed to think so alike. _You have to help them. She’s only a little girl_.

 _No_. Peggy then amended, _no, she is much more than **only** a little girl_. There was danger in those green eyes of hers. Danger and murder and terrible deeds that had been and would be committed. _But I still have to save her._ Because there was also love. Pure and genuine love for her father, and fear at her teachers, and hope to be _more_ than what they were telling her. Peggy didn’t know it, but in the years to come. that fire; that hope and resilience, it would be all but stamped out entirely. Only one brief memory, among the too-perfect, saccharine haze of ballet lessons, would remain. One bright and defiant spark, burning against the inky, viscous darkness of the blood Red Room and its tentacles. One brief snippet of one broken memory, a fractured splinter of glass, brightly coloured and cheerfully vibrant against the black of night and the crimson of blood. One memory. Tonight.

“I’m going to help you.” Peggy said, “And I know full well what I’m getting myself into. They have may have written about Captain America, but he wasn’t the only one fighting HYDRA and the Nazis.” She said this with more ferocity and conviction than she’d really said anything over the past few weeks, and found that, as she _did_ say this, some tiny part of the ache inside of her began to dull. She was almost put-off and distracted by this, but her conviction allowed her to force it to remain background. Nonetheless it was irrefutable and impossible not to notice. _Healing_. “Stay here.” She then commanded the young Natalia, who, surprised by this stranger’s sudden insistence to protect her, obeyed.

She watched, somewhat awed, as Peggy walked over to the three men and engaged them in conversation. She could hear it from her table. It wasn’t _terrible_ , but it needed work, and a lot of it, if she was to pass off herself as sincere. However, when the British woman then proceeded to slam one into a wooden pillar and kick a second in the groin, Natalia had to admit there was something raw about her style that was nothing short of intriguing. When Peggy had disposed of the third with as much brutality as the others, she waved Natalia over with such _obviousness_ that the girl couldn’t suppress her cringe, even as she found herself thanking the woman.

“Don’t thank me.” Peggy said, ushering Natalia through the back of the club and into the alleyway where its bins and whatnot were kept. “I’ll go find Ivan,” She then said, and when Natalia made to protest, she added in a firm tone, “They aren’t looking for _me_.” And the matter was clearly not up for discussion.

Of course, when a slew of other darkly-dressed men quickly filed into the alley, likely following and subsequently replacing their incapacitated forces, the order to remain still, as much as Peggy’s intention to find Ivan, was rendered moot. Natalia had been trained to be, first and foremost, covert. Only to engage when strictly necessary. Now it was necessary. These men who had ripped Natalia from her father under guises and masks, who had filled her head with fairy-tales and painted her hands in blood. These men who had allied with Nazis, the same men who had taken Peggy’s darling and her brother, who had crumbled her life and those of so many others. They had come at a very inopportune moment, and the women they were about to attack were gravely underestimated.

They gave them hell.

Natalia was swift and wraith-like. Fast and graceful like the ballet dancer she’d thought herself to be. She was gone as though never there, her opponents not grabbing hair or clothing but only mist in the evening. She delivered strategic and devastating jabs to joints and pressure points, rendering them either immediately unconscious, or in great pain before she dealt a swift and elegant kick to their temples, leaving them to slump in the damp muck of the alley. The fact that it was dark and slippery was of no concern to her. They’d have to get their arms around her to beat her; she couldn’t break many holds, but she could do most anything else. Peggy, in sharp contrast, was rugged and brutal, but no less formidable and effective. Natalia couldn’t help but watch as Peggy began taking out these men, cruel punches and cringe-worthy kicks to knees and backs and groins. She had nothing of the finesse or artistry with which she herself had been trained, she was more simply slamming heavy objects like chairs and tables, or, if she was without, herself, into these men until they fell over. It was different and raw and unrefined, and her tutors would have said _sloppy_ , but she found it rather interesting, and strangely _satisfying_ to watch.

By the time all the men were incapacitated, both of them were breathing heavily among the slew of unconscious bodies. From the back of one of the men’s jackets, Natalia pulled a gun, checked to see if it was loaded, and snapped the revolver barrel back into place. She raised it, aiming at the nearest one’s head.

“ _No!_ ” Peggy cried, leaping forwards with such suddenness and unexpected movement, that she actually caught Natalia off guard, and succeeded in batting the gun away from her hand. It clattered emptily to the damp, slimy ground. Natalia glared at her, affronted.

“What are you doing?” She demanded icily. Peggy looked at her desperately, and found herself scared; not _of_ her, but _for_ her. She understood what Ivan had meant. He feared for her; body, mind and soul. She wondered what Steve would think of this girl. Would he abhor her? No, that wasn’t his style. He’d try to save her. And so would she. So she did.

“Don’t kill them.” Peggy said, keeping a respectful, nonthreatening distance from Natalia, who looked confused and angry and slightly afraid. “Don’t be what they were trying to make you. Don’t be their weapon, their spy.”

“These men _stole_ me!” Natalia exclaimed angrily, something of a Russian accent bleeding into her words, now. Desperation or fury, Peggy couldn’t tell what was the culprit. “They ripped me from my Papa, made me learn things, _do_ things…” She reached for the gun but Peggy, in better reach, kicked it away. It skittered across the ground easily, helped by the rain and grime, and into the shadows, harmless – now. Natalia snarled at her, “Don’t control me.” She said in a poisonous voice, and she raised a hand to push Peggy away roughly. It was sloppy and uncoordinated, made so by her anger. She had been told all too often by her tutors that emotion was a blunt to the edge of her attack. She knew her hand would not touch the British woman as soon as she raised her arm, and sure enough, Peggy caught her wrist, but pointedly, let go as soon as Natalia had stopped the momentum of the blow. Scowling, she took a step back, but her anger was dissipating, being overcome by fear and uncertainty and... shame?

“I’m not controlling you, Natalia." Her name, like her Papa's, sounded peculiar on a British tongue. "I’m trying to help you.” Peggy said evenly. “You have to see that you have a choice. You don’t have to be their…” What was it Ivan had said? “You don’t have to be their Black Widow.”

“I’ve killed before.” Natalia told her impassively; frankly. Like she was giving her the time, “Men. Women. Children. …my friends. I’ve killed them.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to _be_ a killer.” Peggy insisted, “You can be more than what they want you to be. You can choose to pull the trigger, like they want you to, or you can put down the gun and walk away. You _always_ have a choice. Even when you don't see one, you can make another option, carve your own path through the forest. You can just _walk away_.” Natalia looked at her, for the first time her green eyes showing something other than terror or rage or simply nothing at all. She saw something sweet, something kind, something _normal_ for the eyes of a teenaged girl. She saw light and laughter, she saw _hope_. In the years to come, these very words would come back to a slightly-less young Natalia. Faced with the ultimatum of killing a hawk or letting it kill her. She would forge that third option thanks to those words. And for that, she would save millions.

“Natalia!” From seemingly nowhere, the massive frame of Ivan Petrovich materialised. He was bleeding from his nose and one of his eyes was already purpling in a bruise. One of the arms of his coat was slightly askew, and Peggy realised it was because there was a bullet hole in it – but only a graze, if she could tell accurately. It was hard to say for sure from such a distance, and under the thick fur of the coat. Nonetheless, he seemed to be relatively okay. “Natalia, there were more men than I thought, are you alright?” He looked to the hoard of unconscious men at her and Peggy’s feet. If he questioned why they weren’t dead (was this man a candid killer like Natalia almost was? He didn’t seem so, but it was hard to tell based on knowing him for an hour) he did not voice his concerns, and instead only stepped lightly between the bodies to pull Natalia into a feverish, desperate hug. Her skinny frame was dwarfed by his, and despite what had just happened, Peggy felt a wash of relief for Natalia and her father.

“Thank you.” Ivan said, looking up at Peggy his voice gruff with an attempt to hold back emotion. “Thank you, Miss Carter. I do not know how I can ever repay you. I…”

“No payment needed.” Peggy said in a calm, level voice. “Just… keep Natalia safe. Keep your promise.” She looked at Natalia, her own eyes meeting the green ones, and for once they were not icy and cold. “You can always walk away.” She told the girl in a soft voice. Natalia nodded, Ivan thanked her once more, and the pair stepped out of the alleyway, into the streets of the city, turned a corner, and Peggy never saw either of them ever again.


End file.
